


the devil's right there in the details

by catteo



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Framework Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9974546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteo/pseuds/catteo
Summary: In which I can't believe I'm back here.Or, aos enters the framework and everything goes to hell. Me included.Post 4x15, Self-Control.





	1. one

Daisy’s already on her knees at the bedside, one arm reaching out to wake him, before her brain catches up. Dark brown hair and a sunburst scar on one shoulder that’s only too familiar. She doesn’t question how she knows that there’s a gun under the pillow, just slides her hand under soft white cotton, trying not to let the scream in her throat escape. Four heartbeats, pounding in her ears, and she’s got her back against the wall, the comforting weight of the gun pointed directly at his chest. She knows she could use her powers, familiar vibrations thrumming just under her skin, but she’s not sure that she wouldn’t level a city block with how out of control she feels.

 

“Babe?” His voice is scratchy with sleep, but she’d know it anywhere. He stretches out a hand, feeling around the emptiness of the other side of the bed. She doesn’t waste time wondering how she knows that he’s reaching for the familiar weight of her body, can feel the certainty in her bones. She supposes she should have known that it would somehow come to this. The barrel of the gun starts shaking, and that simply won’t do. Daisy takes a deep, steadying breath, adjusts her grip slightly and aims at his head. The head that’s turning towards her, presenting her with a face that she never thought she’d see again. Ward.

 

“I thought we were done with this.” Ward’s pushing himself upright, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, seemingly utterly unconcerned by the fact that there’s a gun pointed at him. Daisy supposes that this position isn’t exactly uncharted territory for either of them. Maybe this time she’ll pull the trigger. Do everyone a favor.

 

“You’re dead.” It’s the truth. She knows that this is nothing more than clever programming, no matter that her racing heart and dry mouth are trying to convince her otherwise. “You can’t be here.”

 

“You know, if you stopped pointing that gun at me, I could show you just how not dead I am.” He pushes to his feet as he says it, the sheets falling away. Daisy glues her eyes to his face, focusing on the bruise blooming across his left cheek, trying to ignore the fact that he’s naked. And apparently far happier to see her than she is to see him.

 

“Don’t you dare come any closer.” Her voice shakes. She should just pull the trigger and put and end to this, wipe that irritatingly familiar grin right off his face. “I’m not kidding, I’ll shoot you, I swear to God.”

 

The room’s small, and Ward only needs to take two steps towards her to be right up in her space. The gun’s pushed up against his chest, right above his heart, the muzzle making a dent against his skin. Maybe she’s wrong, and he’s not Grant Ward at all. Maybe this is Hive, back to fill that empty space inside her that echoes with the ghosts of her regrets. The thought doesn’t make her feel any better. She tries to focus on something else. Anything else. Her eyes drift downwards, then snap back to his face as Ward chuckles. She’d forgotten how tall he was. _Is_.

 

“C’mon I told you I was sorry. I _showed_ you how sorry I was.” His hand’s on hers and she recoils from the touch of his skin, her back hitting the wall, dropping the gun in the process. He’s warm; flesh and blood and brittle bone. She could snap him in half if she wanted to. She can’t seem to work out why she hasn't done it already. “Good thing you forgot to take the safety off.” He’s laughing at her and she hates him. She _hates_ him.

 

Ward braces his arms on the wall, hands either side of her head, eyes dark, and a look on his face that suggests he’s not as sorry as he claims. Daisy honestly can’t believe that there’s a moment where she wonders if it was her fingers responsible for the fact that his hair’s sticking out at insane angles. She actually can’t believe any of this. The Framework’s supposed to be some sort of better world and here she is, apparently living with the one person she thought she’d never have to deal with again. What’s worse is that she can feel that the version of her in _this_ world cares about him. She wants to throw up.

 

“I could kill you with my bare hands and you know it.” She grits it out at the same time as ducking under his arm, putting a safe distance between them. Her head’s pounding and she just needs to get out of here. Her back hits the dresser and she hears a picture fall. She doesn’t turn to check. Doesn’t want to turn her back on him. Words from a lifetime ago, _his_ words, coming back to haunt her.

 

“Right back at you, babe. Don’t forget, I taught you everything you know.” Ward shrugs, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and finally wraps a towel around his waist. He stares at her for a moment, studying her face as though he’s trying to work out what’s different about her. It’s unnerving, the familiarity of the way he tilts his head, the way he exhales a huff of air around his smile. “Listen I truly am sorry that May let you think I was dead. I tried telling her that you could fake it, but she seemed to think that you wouldn’t go as far as we needed if you knew the truth.”

 

“May…” Daisy’s head is pounding now, a drumbeat that she’s finding it almost impossible to ignore, and it’s taking every ounce of her self-control not to run for the door. She doesn’t know how this program works, can’t afford to do anything that might cause her to be kicked out of it before she’s found her team. Can’t risk the million variables that might lead this mission to fail. Or worse.

 

“Yeah. She locked me in the Vault at the Triskelion when I informed her that I had a different point of view,” he rubs a hand across his cheek, and Daisy can her the soft scratch of stubble. “Maybe I shouldn’t have hit her to prove my point.”

 

“May can be unreasonable like that.” Daisy can’t believe she’s bantering with him. What is this, 2015? She wonders if maybe there’s another way to fix all of this. Perhaps she can just find Jemma and get out of here, and they can go with an approach that doesn’t involve her dating her dead ex-something. She really needs an Advil.

 

Ward chuckles.

 

She smiles.

 

Everything about this is wrong. _Wrong wrong wrong._

 

“We’ve been called in.” Daisy finally remembers the message she received just before the world came crashing down around her. When she was stupid enough to believe that she was going to see Lincoln again. She swallows down the bitter taste of disappointment, and tries not to focus on the weight that seems to be crushing her chest. Her vision’s starting to blur slightly, and she’s suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

 

As though her words were all the motivation he needed, Ward’s immediately all action, striding past her into the bathroom. She remembers this from before. The way he always seemed to come alive when there was a mission to plan. It used to be one of the things she found most attractive about him, this sense of purpose. Before she found out that _she_ was the mission, and that he was prepared to betray everyone she cared about. Over and over and over again.

 

She hears the shower turn on, the sound of water loud in her ears, lending a roar to the pounding headache that won’t seem to let up. She tries to focus on her hatred, to draw strength from the anger that drove her for so long, but it’s as though her body’s trying to fight her. She turns, slumps forward onto the dresser, staring directly down the fallen picture. It’s her and Ward, arms wrapped around each other, beaming at the camera. The world starts to fade at the edges, darkness closing in around her.

 

“Skye!” Ward’s voice is the last thing she hears, and she can’t even muster the strength to tell him that’s not her name. She barely feels the jolt as she hits the floor before the blackness swallows her whole


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Framework has other ideas about how the story unfolds...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who has two thumbs and loves a good flashback? THIS GIRL.

The first thing she notices is that her vicious headache has vanished. The second is that she appears to be considerably smaller than she was a moment ago, in a memory that’s already drifting away into nothing. Her heart’s still pounding, and she can taste her own fear in the air that surrounds her, acid punching through a smell of burning that’s getting impossible to ignore. She can hear screaming in the distance, abruptly cut off, and she wraps her arms tighter around her knees, willing herself to silence. To stillness. She knows that she can’t afford to stay here much longer, that she needs to move, to escape, but she has no idea how to avoid the army that seems to have invaded. Abruptly the door of her hiding place is blasted open, revealing a vision of hell.

 

 

The world is burning, vivid scarlet and orange painting the walls of the place she was almost beginning to think of as safe. It’s unrecognisable now, and a small part of her congratulates herself for not allowing herself to get attached. She knows that she has to get out, the instinct to run getting stronger with every passing second. She’s lived fourteen years of her life without a place to call home, and she doesn’t need one now. She’s a survivor.

 

 

She tugs the plaid shirt from around her waist and fashions a bandana the best she can out of the unwieldy piece of blue and grey fabric. One last deep breath of stale air before the smoke takes over, and she’s blinking back tears, the fire sending long tongues of heat to lick at her heels, as she sprints as fast as she can for where the door used to be. She can see freedom, the blue sky that’s always been the only constant she could depend on. Twenty yards. Ten. Her lungs are burning, begging her to inhale, and she doesn’t even have the breath to scream as a hand clamps down on her arm, inches away from escape, pulling her sideways and into darkness.

 

 

Rough hands pull her shirt away from her face, a broken button scraping her cheek on the way down. The bite of metal on skin grounds her. Gives her something to focus on, even as she blinks furiously, trying to get rid of the burning haze that’s surrounding everything. She doesn’t wait for her sight to fully return, just lashes out with arms and legs, teeth and nails fighting for purchase against something that bleeds. She wants to make whoever is responsible for this _hurt_.

 

 

“Seems like we’ve found ourselves a wildcat.” There’s a round of laughter accompanying the comment, a total lack of concern that she finds utterly offensive. “Calm down kiddo, I’m not here to hurt you. Think of this as an opportunity.” The hands that apparently belong to the voice shove her down into a chair.

 

 

“An opportunity to kick your ass.” She doesn’t know why she says it, since she’s so clearly outnumbered, and the effect’s slightly ruined by the cough that ruins the sting of her sarcasm. Her throat is raw, and she still can’t see anything clearly, just several blurred shapes with a vaguely human outline.

 

 

"I like you, kid, you’ve got spunk. And we’ve always got room for fighters.” There’s a pause, the sound of water hitting the floor. “Here, this’ll help.” This time a damp cloth is pressed into one of her hands. She doesn’t want to show weakness, but her eyes are burning, and the promise of cool water is more than she can resist. She swipes the cloth roughly across her eyes, refusing to acknowledge the angry tears that skate down her cheeks. The relief’s almost instant, the burning becoming nothing more than an irritating itch. A hand’s being proffered to her, as though she’s supposed to grasp it in gratitude. She looks up into a grinning face; blue eyes, dark hair, clean-shaven and an eyebrow raised in expectation.

 

 

There’s blood on the cloth that she slams into the palm that’s raised in greeting. She crosses her arms and slouches back in the chair. The man in front of her laughs, as though this isn’t the first time he’s had to deal with this sort of attitude. She almost feels sorry for him, secure in the knowledge that there’s no way he has anything that she wants.

 

 

“Okay kid, here’s the deal, either you come with us or we leave you here to deal with the cops. They tend not to look kindly on runaways with tendencies towards arson though, so I’d think carefully about your options.” The tone is pleasant, but she knows a threat when she hears one.

 

 

“Firstly, not a kid. Secondly, not interested. You think this is the first time someone’s tried to make me do something with a thinly veiled threat? Try again.” She considers spitting at him, but there’s something in his eyes that stops her, even as he barks out an unexpected laugh.

 

 

“Oh, you’ll go far with an attitude like that. Tell you what, give me your name and I’ll give you a reason to come with us.” His smile seems genuine, and somehow she finds herself liking this man, for all that part of her’s screaming that it’s a terrible idea.

 

 

“You first.” She doesn't like him _that_ much.

 

 

“Garrett. John Garrett.” He holds his hand out again, and this time she takes it, well aware that she has no good options here.

 

 

"Skye." She allows herself a half-smile as John raises an eyebrow at the strength of her grip.

 

 

“That’s all I’m getting?”

 

 

"That's it. Just Skye. No last name." Her smile broadens, and she hopes that John doesn’t see the shadows lurking in the edges. She wants him oblivious of the danger that she poses to him.

 

 

"Well then, Skye with no last name, here’s the deal. You come with me and I help you reach your full potential in a way that nobody else can. I can give you that family you’ve been looking for.” John pauses, waiting for her reply. She tries to ignore the sense that she’s walking headfirst into something she’s completely unprepared for. The word _family_ tugs at her in a way she wasn’t expecting. A thin tendril of ice coils up her spine as she realizes that this man knows things about her. Knows _her_.

 

 

“What do _you_ know about my family?” She doesn’t mean to say it. Doesn’t mean to show him her weakness.

 

 

“More than you, princess.” His smile is wolfish, a predator certain that he’s sprung a trap that there’s no way out of.

 

 

“Fine. I’m in.” Skye tries to tell herself that this is nothing more than the lesser of two evils. Juvie or John. She’s not sure that she hasn’t made a deal with the devil.

 

 

“Excellent choice.” John gestures to one of the figures over his shoulder. “This is Ward. He’s going to show you the ropes.” John leans down until his head is level with hers. “Go easy on him, you’re going to be a shock to his system.” John’s chuckle follows him out of the room, along with three guys who look like they know how to handle themselves in a fight. That just leaves her, and the one standing well back in the shadows. Ward.

 

 

“Henchman or just a lackey?” Skye sneers at the figure emerging out of the darkness. She realises that he’s not actually that much older than her, but he strides smoothly towards her, reminding her uncannily of a panther stalking its prey. There’s a cut on his cheek, one that probably matches hers, only his arches over a cheekbone and across a hint of stubble. His eyes are dark, and she can almost feel the danger that follows him through the room. She feels like a moth being drawn to a flame, and she knows with absolute conviction that this is the moment where her world truly starts to burn.

 

 

“Get up.” There’s a dark promise in his eyes, a knowledge that he’s very much in control of this situation, but Skye’s damned if she’ll give him the satisfaction of doing as he says. She slumps lower in her seat, crosses her arms again.

 

 

“How about you make me.” Skye’s lived on the streets. Sure he’s older than her, but this is hardly the first time she’s given this sort of invitation. She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but Ward leaning a shoulder against the wall and fixing her with a steady gaze isn’t it. She shifts slightly in her chair, hoping to provoke a response. He doesn’t move. She tries counting seconds in her head to keep from saying something else, determined to win this particular battle of wills. “So, are you some sort of robot then?” She curses her own inability to keep her mouth shut.

 

 

“You know we can do this one of two ways.” His voice is completely steady, ignoring her taunt.

 

 

“Is one of them the easy way?” Skye smirks at him. His vaguely bored expression doesn’t change.

 

 

“No.” The threat of violence drifts through the air towards her. Part of her longs to take him up on the challenge.

 

 

"You know what, you're no fun, Robocop.” Skye pushes herself to her feet. She’s bored and she’s tired and she just wants to get the hell out of here. “Well? Don’t you have some ropes to show me?” Skye strides towards the door, but an arm reaches out, blocking her way before she can leave the room. She didn’t even see him move.

 

 

“You can still walk away.” He’s close enough now that she can see the shadows that dance in his eyes are nothing more than ghosts. His words are barely louder than a whisper, as though there’s a danger in speaking them aloud. Skye allows herself a second to wonder what the hell she’s getting herself into. _Family_. The word echoes in her head. She’s seeing this through.

 

 

“Worried about a little competition, Ward?” She smiles at him and, just like that, his features shift. An impressive mask that lets nothing show. She wants to learn how to do that, how to keep the truth of herself hidden inside. She strides out of the door into the future, leaving nothing but smouldering rubble behind.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things get weirder

She manages to somehow crack her eyelids open, but everything’s too bright, and it takes her several moments to orient herself. Her cheek still hurts, but the burning stench that filled her nostrils only a moment before has abruptly vanished. She feels dizzy. Finally she manages to focus on the thumb that’s gently stroking her cheek, the worried voice saying her name.

 

“Skye? Skye, can you hear me?” His eyes are amber, shot through with gold, close enough that she can see the concern written all over his face. He pushes strands of hair back off her face. She can’t seem to work out why it’s the wrong length. In fact, she’s having trouble working out a lot of things.

 

“Ward?” She’s having the strangest dreams.

 

"Hey.” He gives her a relieved smile as he helps her sit up. Something about this isn’t right. “You okay Skye?”

 

Everything snaps back into focus. That’s not her name any more. She’s Daisy now.

 

The pounding in her head starts up again.

 

His arm around her shoulders is weirdly comforting. There’s a worrying part of her that wants nothing more than to lean back into him and reassure herself that he’s really there. She reminds herself that it’s almost certainly nothing more than the Framework’s reality trying to take hold. Hooking into the part of her that always understood. None of this is real. _He’s not real_. The lips that press against her forehead can’t make her feel better, because this is nothing more than clever programming. And she’s never met a system she couldn’t hack.

 

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Daisy pushes herself to her feet, trying her best to rearrange her dressing gown to provide a modicum of decency. Ward’s fussing, trying to get her to sit on the bed, and she honestly doesn’t know what to do with this version of him. A memory surfaces.

 

_It’s good to see you. Better._

 

A wave of nausea washes over her, and Daisy allows herself to be drawn carefully down to sit on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t really know where to look, suddenly presented with the toned expanse of Ward’s torso, leaning over her. She needs to focus before things get even more out of control. She needs him to not be touching her.

 

“I think I probably just overdid things last night. I’ll be fine after some breakfast and, like, a dozen Advil.” She’s proud of the fact that she manages not to blast him across the room. The her in this world wouldn’t do that. Probably.

 

“Overdid things, huh?” Ward’s expression goes from worried to slightly guilty and defensive in a heartbeat. “I told you after you hit me the second time that you should take it easy.” He gestures to the bruise on his cheek. To be fair, he does also pass her a glass of water and some painkillers that seem to have appeared from nowhere. She could just use her powers on him anyway to make herself feel better, only the bastard would probably get a kick out of it.

 

“Count yourself lucky you’re still walking, asshole.” Daisy attempts a grin, as though she’s joking, but she’s fairly certain he’s not buying it as she eyes the purple marks on his face with a degree of professional pride. There was a time she wouldn’t have been able to get the drop on him, and she allows herself a second to gloat that she can still get through his defences. The painkillers go down in two swift swallows as Ward’s eyes narrow, and she fixes him with the best glare she can muster. “You got something you want to say?”

 

“I’m taking a shower. Try not to die whilst my back’s turned.” He heads back towards the bathroom as Daisy gratefully slumps back onto the bed. “Also we have matching bruises following your graceful swan dive, but you can bet your ass I’m telling everyone it happened whilst we were having sex.” His voice drifts in from the bathroom. That explains why her cheek hurts then.

 

“I hate you.” She congratulates herself on getting the last word in, hoping that he could hear the venom in her tone over the sound of the door slamming.

 

Daisy slumps back onto the bed and contemplates the ceiling as she goes through her options. She could run, but she doesn’t even know who she _is_ in this world, and she can’t risk doing something that gets her kicked out of the Framework or, worse, killed. So running is off the table. Perhaps she could try to find someone she knows and convince them to help her. The problem with that is that she doesn’t even know who she knows. Her options are looking pretty terrible. Lastly, she keeps up the charade and gets Ward to take her God knows where to see God knows who on a mission she almost certainly doesn’t want and will have to lie her way through. The irony of this situation isn’t lost on her.

 

“Thanks for nothing, pal.” She directs the comment into the room at large. She doesn’t think that anyone’s listening here, in this digital world, but she feels the need to express how totally not cool with this bizarre reworking of her life story she is. Daisy sighs as she reaches an inevitable conclusion; she’s got to convince Ward that she loves him, and that she’s totally fine with everything that’s going on. Hail Hydra and all that.

 

Her headache begins to settle as the drugs finally start to kick in.

 

She pretends that she’s dozing when Ward emerges from the bathroom. This is already weird enough without adding further nudity to the situation. Her brain helpfully supplies her with all the past instances when she’d have totally snuck a look, and the one time that she absolutely did. She’s seen enough this morning to know that this is peak physical shape Ward. The Framework may hate her, but at least it’s not letting her down in that regard. It’s a weird thought to have, so she doesn’t bother examining it any further.

 

“Didn’t you say we’ve got to get to the office?” Ward’s voice rudely interrupts her reverie. She’s just reached the part of her daydream where she’s deciding whether to shoot him or not, and she’s slightly surprised to find that she probably wouldn’t bother this time. She chalks it up to the computer programming trying to make her more compliant. She’d definitely shoot him if this were real life.

 

“I don’t see any coffee. I clearly said that coffee was required.” It’s weirdly reminiscent of the time that they spent together on the Bus, and Daisy’s a little perturbed by how easily she’s able to slip back into their old routines. Obviously this is all taken from her memories, so she shouldn’t be surprised, but she worries about how natural it feels, the two of them sharing the same space. “Ward, go make me a coffee.”

 

“You sure you’re well enough to go in for a briefing?” His face appears in her line of sight, upside down from where she’s still lying sprawled on the bed. He starts leaning down, and she promptly sits bolt upright, terrified that he’s going to go in for some weird Spider-Man kiss re-enactment. She’s pretty sure that she can fool him, after all she’s had the practice, but she spent long enough recovering from that particular act the first time around. She absolutely refuses to think about all the times he stood in front of her trying to convince her of the truth.

 

“I’m fine grandma, just severely caffeine deficient.” She pushes to her feet, making a huge show of stretching. She tries her best to ignore the way that Ward’s gaze travels appreciatively over her. She sends a questing pulse his way, can’t quite stifle her giggle as he stumbles backwards. The look of outrage on his face is enough to make her release a full-blown laugh. She actually missed pissing him off. It’s an odd realization.

 

"Grandma, huh? Clearly you’re feeling better.” Ward busies himself rolling his sleeves up, apparently refusing to rise to her challenge. Her feeling of superiority from moments before immediately vanishes as she sees what he’s wearing. Black Henley, black jeans, black leather jacket. Exactly the way she remembers. Her nausea returns full force. How the fuck is she going to get through this again?

 

"Clearly." She smiles brightly, selling the lie as though her life depends on it. Which it probably does.

 

“Fine. You find an outfit befitting the occasion of your betrothed returning from war, and I’ll make the coffee.” Ward raises his eyebrows as she makes a gagging noise. It’s something so totally _Skye and Ward_ that she feels as though she’s stepped back in time. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger babe, you’re the one who overdid it last night and decided to practice your “old English”.” He actually makes finger quotes in the air. She wants to die. She wants _him_ to die. She wants to kill him and then herself. She honestly wishes she’d never even _heard_ of SHIELD. “Jesus, Skye, that’s the last time I let you buy the drinks. I’d forgotten what an utter pain in my ass you are when you’re hungover.” At least her rapidly returning headache makes sense now. She was seriously beginning to think that there was a glitch in the Framework.

 

“Well you’re a pain in my ass _all_ the time, so I guess we should just break up now.” Daisy figures it’s worth a try. Ward just laughs and strides out of the room. She can hate him and still admire the way his shoulders fill out that jacket though, right? After all, apparently they’re fucking _engaged_. She’s never going to live this down when she finally gets out of here.

 

It’s not hard to work out which side of the closet belongs to her. Soft blues and greys hang next to brilliant scarlet plaid, and it’s like stepping back in time. She’d forgotten what it was like to dress in order not to draw attention to herself. Her hair’s longer too. She pulls it into a braid, sense memory taking over, fingers easily twisting the strands into place. Daisy knows that it’s too easy to fall back into her memories. It’s one of the many reasons she draw a line between who she was and who she made herself become. She finally takes a look at herself in the mirror. Skye stares back and, for a moment, she can hardly breathe past the ache in her chest.

 

She makes it to the kitchen without incident, following the smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon. Another memory assaults her, sitting down to dinner on the Bus, Ward regaling the team with tales of the months he spent undercover as a chef in Paris. She hates this mission with her whole heart, the way that her past has inexplicably created this future. How all these moments that she’d successfully locked away have, quite literally, come back to haunt her.

 

Ward presents her with a coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs, all tender concern as he asks if she’s feeling okay. She truly wants to scream. This is a routine as familiar to her as the lies she lived with for far too long. Daisy’s trying her best, but there’s no silencing the part of her that knows the truth that ripped their lives apart. She tenses when he drifts a hand across her forehead, checking for a fever she knows she doesn’t have. She turns her head as he goes to kiss her, and she’s glad when she sees confusion skate across his features. Skye had to survive this once, but Daisy has no intentions of falling into the same traps. She doesn’t exactly know what’s going on here, but she’s sure as hell not going to let Grant Ward be the one in charge.

 

“You’re going to have to stop being pissed at me eventually.” Ward makes the observation between sips of coffee, staring at her across the rim of his cup. She’d throw the rest of her breakfast at him, but it’s delicious and she’s starving. Might as well take advantage of the fact that you can’t put on weight in a computer program.

 

“Wouldn’t count on it.” She considers licking her plate, but doesn’t want to give Ward the satisfaction. “We should get going.” Hopefully things will start to make sense when they get to wherever the office is.

 

“Fine. But I’m driving.”

 

“Control freak.” She mutters it under her breath as she gets up.

 

“Not if last night was anything to go by, Skye.” He’s somehow right up against her, the heat of his body driving every rational thought out of her head. She didn’t even hear him move. She can feel his breath on her neck, fire racing across her skin. She remembers this.

 

 _She remembers_.

 

Memories of the two of them together assault her; his lips on hers, her fingers laced through his, skin on skin on skin. She can’t seem to work out which of them happened here, and which are real. She has a moment of pure horror where she realizes how easy it would be to loose herself in the Framework.

 

"I'm Daisy." She hates how uncertain she sounds.

 

“ _That’s_ the spirit.” Ward tugs gently on her braid. It terrifies her that she instantly feels better. This isn’t supposed to happen. She’s the one in control here. It takes her five long seconds to realize that he didn’t bat an eyelid at her calling herself Daisy. A tendril of fear skates up her spine as she realizes she doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on here.

 

"Shut up, Ward.” Familiar ground.

 

Somehow she manages not to punch, shoot, or otherwise maim Ward when he takes her hand and guides her out of the apartment. She stays a pace behind him as he leads her down the corridor and into the elevator. She’s fairly sure that he can feel the tension pulsing off her, can see that clenching of his jaw which gives her more satisfaction than it probably should. It’s taking more effort than it usually does, keeping her emotions under control. She can feel the anger under her skin, pulsing through her veins.

 

There’s a part of her that wants nothing more than to let all her pent-up energy out in a pulsing rage, destroying this unreality in a heartbeat. But she simply doesn’t know how the ripples would affect everyone she loves. She’s afraid, but she hasn’t come this far just to die because she’s mad at Grant Ward again. So she pulls her anger inwards, wraps it around her skin, forcing it inwards. Her bones ache, and this is one story that she does know the ending to. She needs to get herself under control. Fast.

 

The elevator reaches the ground floor, and she stumbles as the doors open. She’s suddenly exhausted, despite the fact that she only just woke up. She silently curses the circumstances that forced her hand - she’s so unprepared and she doesn’t know how any of this works. She desperately needs to find Jemma. Ward’s hand on her elbow only serves to remind her how alien this reality is. She breathes slow, forces herself to stillness. She can do this.

 

He guides her through the garage, apparently reconciled to the fact that she’s giving him the silent treatment. She probably shouldn’t be surprised that their car is a black convertible. There’s something green etched on the side, but she honestly doesn’t have the energy to care. Ward slides into the drivers seat, and it’s like winding back the clock, the rookie and her SO on yet another mission. There’s a moment where she can feel how easy it would be to fall into this life. Forget the pain of the last few years. That’s the last thing she can afford though. She has to fight. Has to work out what’s going on, why Ward didn’t freak out when she called herself Daisy. But she’s so tired, and the hum of the engine feels like a lullaby. The tyres vibrating against the asphalt gradually sing her to sleep.


End file.
